Regretfully Yours
by p0ck3tf0x
Summary: It should have been an issue that neither of them could speak the same language.  Somehow, though, it did not matter if it was just a single door between them or a thousand miles; there was one language both of them understood. Love needed no words.


_Synopsis: It should have been an issue that neither of them could speak the same language. It should have been an issue that both of them were men or that there was a war on. Somehow, though, it did not matter if it was just a single door between them or a thousand miles; there was one language both of them understood. Love needed no words._

__Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither do any of the countries mentioned. Get back to me after 'World Domination Phase 3' is complete.__

__Note: italics reference handwriting.  
><em>_

**Regretfully Yours**

The soldiers marched into town in neat rows and columns, one foot in front of the other, but there was a sweetness to the air that belied their serious expressions. As overworked and underpaid as the soldiers were it was nice to have an excuse to burn off some steam. Their outpost had been raised on the outskirts of the poor provincial town and most of the soldiers were still at base; there were two hundred soldiers in total but just those few that had earned leave were marching now.

Gilbert marched at the front of the columns and led the soldiers through the rich pastures and into town. France was so beautiful; it was a shame that the war pockmarked the farmland and cities. It was a shame that the dirt had tasted the blood of a thousand men and still cried out for more.

But that was all it was; a shame.

Gilbert could not allow himself to become invested in the matter. He wanted to go home and in order to do that he needed to go to war. It was complicated and simple in a single breath.

The town square marketplace was open and cobbled with a fountain in the centre. There were a dozen and a half shop windows crowned with bright, colourful canopies turned inwards towards the fountain. It should have been bustling and crowded in the afternoon sunshine but it was instead quiet. Their marching might have convinced families to keep their daughters tucked out of sight as it was common for soldiers on leave to seek companionship in the fairer sex.

He would never have allowed them to be less than chivalrous but the families did not know that.

Gilbert barked a short, sharp order in German and the soldiers dispersed in twos and threes, serious expressions gone, laughing and heading towards the taverns or flirtatious women. Gilbert kept to the marketplace and watched them disappear before loosening the set of his shoulders. He trusted that none of them would wrestle or be disruptive or be less than courteous towards a woman. The last soldier under his care who had tried to force himself on a woman was still in the mobile hospital. That had been over six months ago.

The soldiers knew better than to fuck with him.

There would be proper courtships, of course, and that did not bother him; matches and marriages and mistresses often came from these excursions. That was how his own first lieutenant had met his wife. Men and women did not even need to speak the same language, most of them would not, because there was one language that was understood across the continent. Love, or lust, needed no words.

Gilbert pressed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the fountain. He was waiting for the town to come to life again. This vanishing act was the initial reaction to foreign soldiers marching into town. He had done this before, in other towns, but it was forever the same. Next came fascination and interest.

If the borders shifted north while this town was still occupied, the fascination would turn to hatred as the soldiers littered the town with bullets and tore up cobblestones with their studded boots, and there was no returning from that. The pleasant fountain he was leaning against would be smashed into a thousand pieces. The streets would be painted with blood.

War was cruel but it was not his concern.

There was no one waiting for him in this town and so it was not his concern. It was sad but so very, very true.

One of the doors opened with the _'ting-a-ling'_ of a miniscule bell bolted to the doorframe and a blonde stepped out with an armful of flowers. She twisted before he could see her face and settled the flowers in a basket outside of the shop. There were flowers and herbs and vegetables in the baskets. There was even a smattering of fruit rare in wartime. It was vibrant.

She was adjusting the produce and the attached signage with her back to him. She was singing under her breath and if the marketplace were bustling, as it should have been, he never would have heard it. Her voice was deeper than Gilbert expected.

She was taller than most women and much thinner too. She had tied a blue apron around her waist in a neat bow. There was not much of a swell to her hips but she was graceful and delicate and that made these shortcomings less noticeable.

Gilbert was often attracted to shorter women who bordered just this side of voluptuous and this woman was neither but he was still interested. He could not explain it. It was possible that war meant he could not afford to be exacting when it came to companionship or perhaps his tastes were changing. There was just something about her.

He could not explain it.

He smoothed the lapels of his uniform and stalked over to her. In the sunlight her loose curls were a burnished golden hue that dusted just below the nape of her neck. It reminded him of something burning and he wondered if it would be hot to the touch.

He came from behind, pressing against her, and set one of his hands on her hip without invitation. He massaged his fingers in a pattern across her hipbone and was astonished at how the skin stretched tight across the bone without the slightest bit of flesh between. She stiffened.

She was almost taller than him but it did not upset him as it might upset most men. He was comfortable with his own limitations and strengths; he had to be as an albino, and did not feel the need to overcompensate. He could not give a damn about her height.

He whispered against her ear in German, not sure if she understood and not caring, and felt as she began shivering against him. His whispers became dirtier and dirtier; he was sure that the tone was understood even if the words were not and her shivering became worse. He was sure that he almost had her in his grasp.

She shifted in his arms and Gilbert waited for his reward. He was surprised when she instead punched him in the face with a closed fist.

He went sprawling across the cobblestones and tasted the bitterness of his own blood. He sat up and touched the bleeding corner of his mouth in amazement. She was standing over him; waving her arms above her head and shrieking in rapid, hurried French before she kicked him in the shin and stormed back into the shop. He was in a daze. Gilbert had a decent understanding of French but most of that had been lost on him. He had understood the most important part though.

The blonde was a man.

Gilbert collapsed against the cobblestones and began laughing so hard that it hurt.

* * *

><p>Matthew dashed inside the shop and slammed the brilliant red door shut behind him with an echoing, final sound. The bell made a single sharp noise instead of its normal dulcet tinkle.<p>

He leaned against the door and listened to the strange soldier cackling on the cobblestones outside of his shop.

What. The. Hell.

Matthew was shivering with rage and disgust. Of all the nerve! He had been mistaken for a woman in the past, true, but no one had ever laid hands upon him in such a presumptuous fashion.

He crossed his arms over his chest and drummed his long fingers against his elbow.

Matthew swept his gaze across the shop, focusing on the familiar surroundings, and swallowed his rage. The interior of his shop was as well organized as the baskets outside and the arrangement comforted him. His shop was one of the few remaining pieces of his life over which he could exert some manner of order and control. There was not much left to comfort him when his homeland was occupied and this was his last refuge.

The fact that one of the soldiers responsible for this war had touched him… It was disgusting. Matthew tried not to be judgmental because he thought he should be above such emotions but it was difficult. He had heard the horror stories of recruiting campaigns to the east and the punishments for deserters but it was still difficult.

The cackling outside stopped and Matthew resisted the urge to check if the soldier was gone. To see if it was safe. He was not a coward and the soldier had not frightened him and, even if he had frightened him, checking would not mean that it was safe.

Still…

Matthew peeked through the curtains against the window and breathed a sigh of relief when the soldier was nowhere to be seen. He touched his forehead to the glass and counted to ten. That had been enough excitement for one afternoon.

There was a quiet _'thump'_ against the door and his eyes widened. He glanced down and, sure enough, the soldier was leaning against the other side of the door with his knees drawn up against his chest. He began speaking to him in German, none of which he understood, and Matthew kicked the door so that he would feel it on the other side and know he was not welcome here. The soldier bounced forwards an inch with the kick and started laughing again instead of taking the hint and leaving him alone.

Matthew frowned.

He asked what he wanted in French and the soldier replied in German. The two of them were getting nowhere fast.

The soldier was pale to the point of sickness and his hair was silver in the sunlight. Matthew wanted to run his fingers through it and see if it was as cold as it seemed. Instead, he locked the door with an audible _'click'_ and retreated further into the shop where he could no longer see the man who was still laughing on the other side of the door.

His frown deepened.

Matthew perched on the counter and weighed his options. There was a cellar in the basement that he could escape through but he refused to be chased out of his own shop. He could open the door and beat him with the thistle broom leaning against the counter but that seemed a bit extreme on his part and less than polite. There was a chance that his advances could have been an honest mistake.

The soldier slipped a folded piece of paper through the postal slot with a soft rattle before Matthew could come to a decision.

He jumped off the counter and suspiciously picked it up with just his index finger and thumb but it turned out to be a handwritten note in German. He went to the back corner of the shop and plucked a 'French to German and German to French' dictionary from the shelves. It was a useful tome to own in these times of war.

Matthew set it on the counter and flipped through the pages. It did not take him long to translate the single sentence.

_Are you a man or a woman?_

Matthew stared at the note and raised an eyebrow. He thought that he had been quite obvious with the screaming and kicking.

He scribbled a response and pressed it through the slot.

_Please, go away._

The soldier's French must have been better than his own German because he was able to translate it without a lexicon. He sent the note back.

_I asked if you were a man or a woman._

_Go away!_

_Answer the question._

_No!_

_Well, you hit like a woman._

Matthew smacked his forehead against the counter and groaned. This was ridiculous.

_I am a man. Is that what you wanted to hear? Now, go away._

_… Can I come in?_

_No!_

The soldier tried to send another note through the opening but Matthew kept pushing it back out. It was childish, he knew, but he did not care.

It was not until the sun had dipped below the horizon that the soldier stood up and brushed off his uniform. He called through the door in German. Matthew shifted the curtain to see him through the windowpane, wishing he would just leave, and found that his eyes were crimson. It frightened him and the fact that it frightened him at all bothered Matthew; this war had been started because one person could not accept the differences of another. He needed to be better than that. The soldier was smiling, though, and it softened the effect. It made him handsome rather than frightening.

It made it easier to be better than that.

The soldier bent down to slide a final note through the slot before walking in the opposite direction. He was waving without glancing behind, as if he knew Matthew would be watching, with a languid, sure of himself grace that irritated Matthew and then he was gone.

Matthew retrieved the note and set to translating it.

_I'll be back tomorrow._

* * *

><p>Gilbert led a new handful of soldiers into town and watched them disperse. He was left alone in the town square besides the blacksmith who was watching him with guarded interest from his bench. The other shopkeepers were still out of sight but he knew that more and more of them would chance coming out once realizing that no one was here to pillage or plunder.<p>

He stalked towards that one shop and was surprised to find a handwritten note already tacked to the door.

_Go away!_

Gilbert cackled. He was interested in the blonde whether he was a man or a woman. He was fascinating as so few men were and that was more than enough to please Gilbert. It seemed to him that gender came second.

He tore the note from the door and scrambled for a pencil. What to write... What to write...

Gilbert wanted to meet him, although he was not sure what he would do when he did, and teasing seemed the most obvious method of garnering his attention.

_So... What are you wearing?_

He passed it through the postal slot and waited. He could hear the soft patter of feet from inside and the choke of surprise after he had translated the note. He grinned.

The note was pushed firmly back through the slot.

_Go away!_

_Can I guess?_

_No!_

_Is it a skirt? Is it pink?_

_I'm not a woman!_

_Is there a ribbon in your hair?_

_No! I'm wearing an apron, if you must know._

_And nothing else? France is such a scandalous place!_

Gilbert heard him choke again and then he started coughing. His smile widened.  
><em><br>__Of course I am wearing pants and a shirt, you..._ Gilbert could not translate the words after that but he was sure that it was an insult and a colourful one at that.

_How vulgar._

_Go away._

_I'm just going to keep coming back._

_Then I'm just going to keep locking you out._

_We'll see about that._

Gilbert had always enjoyed a challenge.

* * *

><p>The pale soldier kept his word. Whenever he brought the soldiers into town, he would spend the time waiting outside of his shop with his knees drawn up against his chest. The rest of the townspeople grew more comfortable with their presence and life in the town returned to business as usual but Matthew still locked his door.<p>

The soldier's name was Gilbert. He had told him so in a note last week but Matthew had refused to share his own name. After coming to the conclusion that Matthew was indeed a man, Gilbert changed tactics, and figuring out his name became his new favourite pastime.

He saw it as a challenge for some reason.

_Jacque?_

_No._

_Jean Claude?_

_No._

_Penelope?_

_What? No!_

So perhaps he still thought Matthew was a woman sometimes.

_Francoise?_

_No._

Matthew was loath to admit it but he actually enjoyed his company. He enjoyed passing notes back and forth and being childish.

There were so few excuses to be childish during war.

_Sebastian?_

_No._

_Maria?_

_No!_

* * *

><p>Gilbert was leaning against what he had decided was his favourite door in the whole wide world. He had been posted on the outskirts of this town for six weeks now and the townspeople had come to appreciate the soldiers and the fact that their limited paycheques were spent in town.<p>

He could feel the blonde leaning against the other side of the door.

There were no notes this afternoon. The two of them were just leaning against either side of the red door. Gilbert was speaking in German and the other man was just listening although he did not understand a word of it.

It was nice.

Gilbert was telling him about the soldiers and the war efforts but, more than that, he was telling him about his hometown and his brother and his frail old aunt. He was describing his favourite hiding places and the apple tree he had spent his childhood climbing. He was telling him about his life, his actual life, instead of just his position in a war he had no interest in.

It had been a 'damned if you do, damned if you do not' sort of situation. He had decided to join the war rather than uproot his whole life in an attempt to avoid it. Perhaps that made him a terrible person or a selfish person but he had made his decision and there was no turning back now.

The blonde was wonderful at listening even when he did not know what was being said.

* * *

><p><em>Alexandre?<em>

_No._

_Bernard?_

_No._

_Antoinette?_

_No!_

* * *

><p>It had been nine weeks since the soldiers had come upon the town and life had almost hit a rhythm for Matthew. He found himself waiting for those letters in the afternoon and most of his mornings were wasted because he could not keep focused on the tasks before him whilst waiting.<p>

He still locked the door though.

As the town became more comfortable with the presence of the soldiers, the women were out and about searching for a good time, if not a marriage. Several attractive women had approached Gilbert as he was leaning against the door but he had refused all of them. Matthew was not sure of the reason but it relieved him nonetheless.

Matthew had never been interested in women but it had never occurred to him that he might be interested in men instead. With the current political climate, now was not the time to decide whether or not he was homosexual, but he was curious.

Frightened, of course, but curious.

It would not matter much in this town. The townspeople kept to themselves and watched after their own. Matthew knew for a fact that the two women down the street were not spinster sisters at all and so did the rest of the town. Still, no one reported it.

After all of the horror stories trickling in from the rest of Europe, he was thankful that his town was as such. He knew it was rare.

Gilbert pushed a note through the slot and Matthew had to keep himself from running to pick it up. He told himself that his reaction was less than dignified but was surprised to find that it was still a struggle to curtail his excitement.

He bent down to pick it up with a smile but the smile slipped from his face as he translated it.

_I have to leave._

His heart caught in his throat.

_What?_

_The borders have shifted south and our orders have changed. We're being reposted. I have to leave, Birdie._ Gilbert had started calling him 'Birdie' two weeks ago because Matthew still refused to tell him his name. It had been difficult to translate the nickname and at first he had been upset. It was so... feminine. Now he cherished it; no one had ever offered him a pet name before and it made him feel special. _We're leaving._

Matthew was disgusted to find his hands shaking. He did not know this man; he had never known this man, so why were his hands shaking? He could be anyone; he could be a horrible, rotten person. Why were his hands shaking?

_I'll miss you._ He knew it was true as soon as he wrote it and slipped it through the slot.

_I'll miss you too.__  
><em>  
>Gilbert stepped back from the door with a regretful frown and started walking out of his life. Matthew watched him go for all of five seconds before unlocking the red door and slamming it open.<p>

"Matthew!" He shouted and it echoed through the marketplace as everyone paused to watch.

Gilbert twisted on the spot and raised his eyebrows. He called back and it sounded like a question.

"My name is Matthew!"

Gilbert stared at him for a moment before his face split into the largest grin Matthew had ever seen. He turned back around to continue walking; his hand swinging with that same languid wave from their first meeting when he had promised to come back.

Gilbert called over his shoulder in German but Matthew had no idea what he said.

He watched Gilbert disappear and his heart felt a little heavier for it.

* * *

><p>Gilbert sat on the front lines with a pencil and a piece of paper while bullets clattered far above his helmet. The soldiers around him were hollow and beaten but he kept that last image of Matthew in his mind and it helped.<p>

The blonde had been as beautiful as he remembered. His golden curls had still seemed hot to the touch and he wanted to test his hypothesis by running his fingers through those curls. His eyes had been wide and lavender and far deeper than the colour should allow. His features were delicate but it was the strong line of his jaw that kept his face from becoming too feminine. His lips had been parted as he gasped for breath and shouted the name Gilbert had been longing to hear. Matthew.

Gilbert had never been attracted to a man before. He would keep this bit of information to himself because the consequences were not worth the risk. Not yet. Nevertheless, that image of Matthew in his mind was all that stood between him and madness on this battlefield.

What to write... What to write...

* * *

><p>Matthew straightened the flowers in the basket with a sigh. He had been depressed since the soldiers had left and the afternoons seemed a little gloomier without Gilbert sitting outside his door.<p>

The postal carrier stopped in front of his shop on his bicycle and rifled through his satchel.

Matthew never received or sent letters; his cousin was one town over and within walking distance and he was the only person Matthew knew from outside of town.

He plucked a worn letter from the satchel and handed it to Matthew. He tipped his hat and left.

Matthew stared at the letter in his hands. It was covered in dirt but he recognized the handwriting.

He tore it open and ran inside for his dictionary.

_Dearest Birdie,_

_I do miss you. I am sitting drenched in rainwater and filth when I would much rather be sitting outside your lovely red door. It is a dreadful place. I would write more but it would only be blackened._

_I think about you. I hope that you think about me._

_Yours truly,_

_Gilbert_

Matthew stared at the letter and fought the tears threatening to slide down his cheeks. He scrambled for a pencil and some paper of his own.

There had been a return address on the envelope.

* * *

><p>Gilbert was glaring at the tinned meat clutched in his hands when one of the soldiers started passing around letters. His name was called and he glanced up, the lacklustre meal forgotten, as someone passed a letter to him.<p>

_Gilbert,_

_I do not just think of you; I dream of you, but I will never be 'yours'. You must know that._

He had not signed it but Gilbert recognized the handwriting. He was relieved that Matthew had not signed his name; he must have caught the hint. It would raise some alarms if whoever was checking the post realized that Gilbert was sending letters back and forth to a man. He finally knew his name and he still had to call him 'Birdie'. The universe had a strange sense of humour.

The letter was short and sweet and he was pleased to see that another challenge had been laid before him. Matthew might have been just as frightened of their attraction but it would not stop him. It had not stopped him before. Matthew was stubborn but so was Gilbert; that was how the two of them had gotten into this mess of emotions in the first place.

He found a piece of paper in his pocket.

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_I dream of gunfire and bodies but in between I dream of you._

_Achingly yours,_

_Gilbert_

_P.S. I do not take 'no' for an answer. You should know that._

Matthew tried to frown but the corners of his mouth were determined to smile.

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_You best get used to disappointment._

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_You could never disappoint me._

_Dutifully yours,_

_Gilbert_

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_You never give up, do you?_

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_Not yet and certainly not on you._

_Tenaciously yours,_

_Gilbert_

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_You never learn either._

_I miss you._

_The town is the same as when you left it, if not a little more subdued. Winter will be coming soon. I wish you warmth if not victory._

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_I will never learn and I have never stopped missing you._

_Warmth would be welcome right about now. Are you offering?_

_Hopefully yours,_

_Gilbert_

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_No._

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_Are you quite sure?_

_Still hopefully yours,_

_Gilbert_

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_No!_

Gilbert smiled down at the letter and started laughing. He was hunched over to keep it out of the fine mist of rain that was falling. The soldier sitting next to him was grumbling that there was nothing to be laughing about.

But there was and the proof of it was in his hands.

Matthew had not changed at all.

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_====================._

_===========. =====================================.  
><em>

_Remaining yours in spite of your wounding replies,_

_Gilbert_

Matthew furrowed his eyebrows. Whatever Gilbert had written had been blackened before it was sent. It upset Matthew, as if he had been robbed some small pleasure, but he understood the reasoning behind such measures. He did not have to like it though.

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_===========================._

Gilbert just glared at the piece of paper. It seemed so unfair. He glanced at the soldier next to him and saw that his letter had been blackened as well, besides a line or two near the end.

He wondered if they were losing the war.

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_I've been shot._

_Painfully yours,_

_Gilbert_

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_What! Are you alright?_

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_Answer me!_

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert?<em>

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_I am still alive but it was close._

_Tactfully yours,_

_Gilbert_

_P.S. I'm sorry if I scared you._

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_If a bullet does not find you first, I will. Never, ever do that to me again._

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_After spending two weeks in the hospital, and thinking of nothing else besides you, I have decided that I must be in love with you._

_Forever yours,_

_Gilbert_

Matthew clutched the letter between his fingers and felt lost. After that scare, he had not eaten or slept for a fortnight and he had come to the same conclusion. He had never been in love before but he was so sure this strange emotion that was both a burden and a blessing could be nothing else.

But... He could not even sign his own name in a letter.

Why did love have to be so hard?

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_I love you too._

_Begrudgingly yours,_

_Birdie_

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_Does that mean what I think it means?_

_Ecstatically yours,_

_Gilbert_

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_Do not disappoint me._

_Anxiously yours,_

_Birdie_

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Birdie,<em>

_I promise not to. You're just going to have to trust me._

_Glowingly yours,_

_Gilbert_

* * *

><p><em>Gilbert,<em>

_I do. Come back safely._

_Regretfully (because I hate to admit it) I have always been yours,_

_Birdie_

* * *

><p><em>To whom it may concern,<em>

_It is with great regret that I report the loss of Hauptmann Gilbert Beilschmidt in battle on this date of April 01st, 1945. _

_This is the address to which he sent most of his post and we, his comrades, wish to share our sorrow and grief with his most dear._

_Regretfully yours,_

_Oberst Hans Wagner_

Matthew let the letter slip from his fingers and did not notice when it landed on the floor. The tears were coursing down his cheeks, the ones he had been holding back for months, but he did not make a sound.

It was over.

It was all over.

* * *

><p>It turned out that it was just the war that was over and that the world went on spinning as if the shining light in his life had not been extinguished. It seemed insulting, somehow, that the rest of the world did not feel the loss.<p>

Matthew was straightening the shelves in his shop when a letter slipped through the postal slot with a soft rattle. He did not turn around.

Another letter was pushed through the slot and he ignored this one too because it broke his heart. How could it be that a sound that had once brought him so much happiness now tore him to pieces?

Another letter was pushed through.

Matthew growled and stormed over to the pile of letters. He picked them up and turned the first one over in his hand. There was no return address.

_Dearest Matthew,_

_I told you to trust me._

_Regretfully yours,_

_Gilbert_

Matthew stared at the letter after he had translated it. It was cruel, too cruel, for someone to send these letters when Gilbert was gone. He opened the next one.

_Dearest Matthew,_

_I keep my promises._

_Regretfully yours,_

_Gilbert_

He opened the last letter.

_Dearest Matthew,_

_I love you._

_Regretfully yours,_

_Gilbert_

He sank the ground and leaned against the door as he cried.

It was too cruel.

Another letter was pushed through.

_Dearest Matthew,_

_I'm so, so, so sorry. Can I come in now?_

_Regretfully yours,_

_Gilbert_

Matthew leapt up and tugged the door open and the man who had been sitting on the other side fell into the shop. He was holding his hands up in a peaceful gesture and painted with a sheepish smile.

It was Gilbert.

He started explaining himself in rapid German that Matthew did not understand as he stood up and Matthew started shrieking at him in French. He pointed at Gilbert and at the letters and Gilbert tried to calm him down.

He did not want to calm; he wanted to be upset.

Matthew grabbed the stack of letters and hit him with them over and over again. Gilbert was laughing as if delighted even as he covered his head for protection.

Gilbert backed him up into the counter and plucked the letters from his hand. He set them on the countertop. He began tracing his cheekbones and running his fingers through his curls and Matthew wanted to do the same.

His silver strands were not cold at all.

Matthew kissed him. He kissed him as if he would never see him again because he had been so sure that he never would.

The kisses were desperate and heated and not enough after waiting for what seemed like a lifetime. He started unbuttoning his uniform but Gilbert broke the kiss and leaned into him with a heaviness that had little to do with weight.

"Je t'aime," he whispered in a language that Matthew knew.

"Ich liebe dich," he whispered back. He had learnt it months beforehand when he first realized that he was in love with the soldier.

Matthew untangled himself to lock the brilliant red door, this time with both of them on the same side of it, before returning to Gilbert to speak a language both of them understood:

Love.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Well, that was saccharine and sentimental... I should be ashamed. It was a lot of fun to write, though, and a bit strange because this one was a dream first and I wrote the whole piece from beneath the covers. It is set during World War Two._

_Gilbert will have some explaining to do after the initial high has worn off… Matthew might just murder him. _

_It was common for unions of these sorts to occur (perhaps not between two males) when soldiers were stationed outside of a town whether or not the soldiers were enemies and whether or not the couple spoke the same language. Love, or lust, needs no words. My own great grandparents could not speak the same language but it did not slow them down much.  
><em>

_It is neat to see the progression of the notes and letters; from the short banter to the letters written for 'Birdie' to his refusal to sign 'yours' at the bottom until he was sure he meant it to the last letters written for 'Matthew'. In contrast, Gilbert signs all of his letters with 'yours'. Tenaciously, hopefully, forever yours.  
><em>

_The reference to blackened letters is standard procedure. Whoever is in charge of checking the mail and reading through the letters must blacken or cross off information he or she feels reveals too much about the war or their position. It is a form of censorship. I am told it is disappointing to wait weeks for a letter and find half of it blackened. It would be frustrating. _

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